Bad Dreams and Good Company
by RebelWriter6561
Summary: A handful of nightmares, mixed with fitful rest, add strange feelings and new interactions to the adventure. Stir well. Pre- Thilbo and Dwori
1. Thorin's Nightmares

~*~ How do you celebrate getting out of school? Writing a multi-chapter Hobbit fic. Not my first time writing for this fandom, but the first published. Pairings included will be pre-Thorin/Bilbo, and pre-Ori/Dwalin.  
Warnings: violence, blood, mild fluff  
Musical Muse: Hobbit/LotR Playlist, plus watching An Unexpected Journey for the thousandth time  
Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien, or Peter Jackson, or Martin Freeman or Richard Armitage or anyone else mentioned here. If I was, I'd be more drunk with power than I already am, and I would have released the trailer for the second movie by now.  
Grudging thanks to my beta Kat, who did fix errors but took her sweet time about it. Still love her though.

~*~Thorin's Nightmares~*~

Thorin's nightmares always began the same, for as long as he'd been having them. He was before the Mines of Moria, in the great Battle of Azanulbizar, where his kinsmen and warriors fell, dust and blood choking the air. The horror of so much death and the crushing weight of defeat lay heavy on his shoulders, but Thorin could feel the greatest dread of all building in his chest. Every time, he crested the top of a rise to see Azog, the Pale Orc, The Defiler, roaring to the skies and holding the head of one whom he held dear. He was always too far away and much too late to do anything except wail.

The nightmare stayed the same, but that one detail often changed.

For many long years, Thorin relived his grandfather's death, watched him be slain over and over again. Blood would gush from beneath Thror's beard to stain the ground below, his eyes blank and expressionless, before the head was unceremoniously thrown to Thorin, who could only stand rooted and watch as his grandfather's killer approached him next. He always recalled the breathless shock of seeing the unexpected death, could still feel the ache of his throat after he cried his grief out to the world, and the touch of cold terror he felt when he knew what would come to him next.

Thorin believed this was a horror enough for a long time, but eventually the dream began to change, and it was others' deaths, others' heads The Defiler showed to him. Always it was someone whom he cared deeply about, and every time the experience never failed to pain him as if the death were real.

Sometimes it was his father, whom he had not seen in all these long years – missing and mad, or perhaps dead. Or, his dear younger brother, already dead before Azog killed their grandfather, but the dream knew no such logic. Dwalin or Balin featured also, for they were dear to him, and he knew that his people could not have survived without their aid.

All-too-frequently it became Fili and Kili, his beloved nephews, their happy calls and young lives silenced forever. The days after he dreamed of their deaths, he always ensured they were close by, taking them to private lessons and not letting them out of his sight. His dear boys, who followed him tirelessly and never questioned their uncle's occasional quirks. They tried so hard to please him, to carry weight on their unready shoulders. If they thought any task would make him proud, they would strive to complete it and find his favor. Thorin did his best to prepare them, but he could never stop himself from worrying over his sister's sons. Any thought of them lying dead on a battlefield was far too much to bear.

Thorin had learned to deal with his dreams and to silence the cries he emitted while waking. The dreams were rare, but frequent enough to warrant learning how to control himself. The first weeks on his journey, in the presence of his company and the wizard and burglar, he remained as stoic in sleep as he was awake. They did not know what plagued his sleep, aside from Fili and Kili, and perhaps Dwalin and Balin. And Gandalf, but he was a wizard. That was to be expected. None of them said a word about the shadows that he knew would cover his eyes after a night of fitful sleep, and for that he was grateful.

Then Azog returned – his empty eyes, staring from that marred face and promising death and pain to Thorin. Azog had returned, and so did the nightmares. For nights he saw his grandfather, his father, his nephews all fall. Every night he felt the stab in his chest anew, and every morning he told himself the pain could not grow.

The dream started as it usually did – he was fighting for his life, surrounded by his enemy and very few friends. His boots slipped and slid in bloody mud as he fought towards the higher ground, where he hoped for an advantage, yet always was met with the sight of still more death. It was there he heard Azog's roar as he always did. He turned and could only watch with horrified dread as the triumphant arm raised its gruesome trophy.

But for once, Thorin did not immediately recognize the head that was displayed before him. There was no long white beard, no flowing locks of gold or black – it was definitely not a dwarf's, though it was strangely familiar: a pale and hairless face, held up by short brown curls. The horror already lodged in his chest surged so strongly it threatened to choke him when he realized who Azog had just killed.

Azog drew his arm back and tossed the hobbit's head before Thorin, who could not stop the cry that viciously ripped from his chest.

Thorin jerked awake, gasping for breath. He wasn't on the battlefield anymore; he was back with his company, all asleep around him. If his cry had escaped into the waking world, there was no sign from his sleeping company. Fili and Kili were asleep at his side, curled around each other, where they had slept without question since Azog's return. Deep rumbling snores filled the shallow cave they were camped in (after thoroughly checking the floor), and once he calmed his heart, Thorin could identify each to its owner. Gandalf sat in the back corner, hat shadowing his presumably sleeping face.

Thorin sat up, rubbing his face to rid himself of the remnants of his dream. It was still fresh in his mind, as clear as if he had indeed witnessed it – Bilbo's eyes half-closed and dark, clever mouth slack. A face gone still. It would never smile so brightly and scowl so strongly, could never again so aptly express its owner's thoughts so well. Azog's thick fingers gripping at deep blonde curls, holding the head up as though it weighed nothing at all—

Thorin shook his head frantically, ignoring the sharp snaps from the ends of his hair hitting his face. The burglar wouldn't be so easily maimed, he reminded himself. The hobbit was fiercer than expected; there was a burning fury hiding beneath that fussy exterior. Thorin had seen enough before he had fallen unconscious, surrounded by flames and guarded by a hobbit who had just stabbed his attempted beheader to death. Bilbo was a surprising fighter, and what's more, was surrounded by dwarves in the safety of this cave. No harm could befall him here.

He was jerked from that rather comforting thought when it finally occurred to him that there actually was no hobbit-shaped lump to be seen at all among the dwarf-shaped lumps.

A rather undignified scrambling brought him to his feet and to the entrance of the cave they were sheltering in. It was actually little more than three large boulders that provided the smallest possible shelter for thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit, but it was still shelter. What's more, it was quite tricky to navigate the stone field surrounding it, and the largest of the boulders provided an excellent height advantage to whoever was on watch.

Thorin paused at the edge of that boulder, staring down at the sight before him. Stretching as far as the eye could see was Mirkwood, the deep dark forest where Gandalf's friend Beorn dwelled. It awaited them for the next day's early trek, for Gandalf had deemed it unwise to venture into the woods at night. Thorin stared at the trees, thinking mad thoughts about some foul creature that could have snuck into the cave to steal their hobbit away, when a slight movement on his peripheral drew his attention up. In the light of the full moon, he could see two pairs of feet hanging over the edge of the boulder – one booted, and the other large and bare and covered in hair.

After taking a few steps forward to where he could see past the edge, Thorin could see who was sitting guard with hobbit accompaniment. Ori and Bilbo peered down at him quizzically, distracted from their moonlit watch by his sudden appearance. Relief crashed through Thorin's chest again, and he suppressed his sigh of relief. There was their Halfling burglar, not maimed or missing, but simply enjoying the night with their scribe.

Thorin looked away from the pair. Deep breaths of the bitterly cold night air cleared his head of the last traces of the dream, and he felt himself steadying. There was no danger to any of his company, he reminded himself; not here, not at this moment, not from any phantom from his dreams or creature from the woods. The hobbit was well-protected from any sort of harm, at least until he needed to face the dragon Smaug.

He was still restless, could feel the itching in his legs and uneasiness of his mind. There would be no more sleep for him that night. If Gandalf was right, and they would have shelter with his forest-friend, then he would sleep the next night in a sturdy hall, where he would know for certain his company would be safe. But until then, he would guard them all himself, even if it took all night.

His mindless footsteps had brought him up the path to the crest of the boulder that formed their shelter. Ori and Bilbo were perched on the edge, facing the dark forest. From this height, he would be able to see Erebor if it were daylight, but it was impossible to see at this time of night. This made him scowl deeply, and he continued to frown at the darkness as he came to stand beside the burglar and the scribe.

Bilbo looked up at him boldly, much as he always had. From the start, in the hobbit's hole in the ground to a few days ago, standing upon the Carrock after finally realizing his importance, Thorin had yet to see Bilbo look away from him or fail to meet his gaze, except when Thorin had been too sudden with his words. During the incident on the mountain pass, and again upon the Carrock, when he had been anticipating a rebuke, Bilbo had been unable meet his eye, and for the life of him Thorin couldn't understand why that bothered him.

It was only after listening to Bilbo attempt to talk his way past Bofur that Thorin realized that there was a line he had crossed, and if it hadn't been for the goblins, Bilbo would have walked away from this quest without a second glance. If he had, then there would have been no one to stop Azog from taking Thorin's head, and the company would have been lost as well. The hug atop the great height had been his poor attempt to make amends for his behavior. Judging from the way Bilbo now acted around him, he seemed to have succeeded. The hobbit had regained boldness, and he now met Thorin's gaze as if daring him to question his presence next to their watchman. Thorin couldn't help but approve.

Ori looked nervous in his presence, as usual. A blanket, one of the few they had left, was wrapped around his and Bilbo's shoulders. Ori was hunched over his book, fingers smudged and still clutching his quill. Those, and the few pages spread over Bilbo's lap, lead Thorin to believe that the pair had been writing when they should have been watching for danger. However, he could not find it in himself to be angry at them. Ori was still so very young, and pushed himself much too hard to prove himself to his King and his brothers. And Bilbo wasn't even supposed to be on watch in the first place.

"Get to bed, Ori." Thorin ordered, and stood back as the lad reluctantly stumbled to his feet, leaving the blanket and a bottle of ink next to the hobbit as he stumbled down the path. Thorin waited until the young dwarf entered the cave before seating himself in the place he had left. Bilbo hadn't moved at all, nor spoke, as the king settled in next to him. He simply gazed at him with a still-questioning look.

Thorin searched his mind for some conversation starter, but found he had nothing to say to the burglar. Anything that came to mind would inevitably lead to Bilbo asking him why he was there, and he found he did not wish to speak of such things. So he remained quiet, staring at the dark forest, as Bilbo, after a long glance at him, dipped his quill back into the ink vial and continued writing.

~*~Chapter two will feature Ori and Dwalin, and will be up soon. Please review!


	2. Ori's Nightmares

~*~ I'm not ashamed to say this is my favorite chapter so far, cause I'm horribly in love with Ori and Dwalin as a pairing. Ori was surprisingly hard to write for, but still fun.  
Warnings: To quote my beta, this fic is "endearingly friggin adorable" so consider yourself warned.  
Musical Muse: My LotR Playlist  
Disclaimer: Not Jackson, not Tolkien, not adorable Adam Brown or glorious Graham McTavish. Damnit.  
My usual love, adoration, and occasional inappropriate grope to my beta Kat.

~*~Ori's Nightmares~*~

Ori, as was becoming alarmingly usual for him, was stuck in a rather uncomfortable dilemma. He was tired – dreadfully so – but he had no idea as to where he should sleep.

During the mix-up in the horrible goblin caves, they had lost most of their supplies, and quite a few weapons ended up with the wrong wielder. While the hunters of the group had them well supplied with food, and most of the remaining weapons found their way back to their respective owners, there was little that could be done about the fact that nearly all their bedrolls and blankets had been lost. And they were still stuck in the frightfully cold mountains.

Thank Aüle, Ori's own journal, quill, and ink stone were left safely under his coat when the goblins had groped at him, as it was evident that they were not weapons…at least not to them.

The too-few number of bedrolls was a minor inconvenience at best – brothers and cousins bedded down with each other, sharing the blankets and body heat as best they could. Master Thorin, because he was King, and Mister Bilbo, because he had no kin, were fortunate enough to have their own blankets. Those who stood watch would sleep alone and pass along the blanket to the one who came to replace them.

As watchman, Ori rightfully should wake the next dwarf in the order, take that blanket, and fall asleep like he so dearly wanted to. But Master Thorin had taken his place, and he didn't know how long he planned to be out talking with their burglar. Ori was quite unsure if he should wake Master Dwalin or not. He didn't want to disturb the warrior needlessly. Really, what he wanted most was to crawl under that blanket with him.

_Not…not because Master Dwalin is the one sleeping under it_, he thought as a familiar blush crossed his face. No. He just wanted to sleep a night without waking up from bad dreams. And be warm. _It certainly would be warm under the blanket with Mister Dwalin…_ but that certainly wasn't why he wanted it, no. Certainly not. He just wanted to get his rest in safety.

Ori knew that his trouble sleeping was a direct consequence of what they'd faced on this journey. At first he thought it would be easy enough, traveling along and doing his part while the warriors of the group did their part to protect them all. It had actually turned out that it was a bit more difficult than he had anticipated. Even after hearing Dori's constant fussing and Nori's tales of the terrors of the wild, he had assumed that they were making it all up and it wouldn't be as bad as all that. He wanted to have a story of his own, like the ones he read in all his books. As it turned out, those stories left out how uncomfortable traveling was and how close to death one constantly was. The worst part was, strongly guessed that he wouldn't be safe or comfortable again until they reached Beorn's house, and further after, when they took back the mountain.

Master Dwalin would protect him, he knew that for certain. Ever since the goblin caves, when grabby claws had ripped him from Dori's side, he'd had nightmares. Hands had gripped him too tight and touched him so uncomfortably, and he couldn't forget the voice of the Goblin King ordering his death. He'd never felt fear like he had in those moments, when he was struck with the realization that those things could have torn him apart, limb from limb, cut up into tiny pieces and Dori and Nori wouldn't have been able to save him. He still didn't feel safe, not in another cave where the floor could drop out from him at any second like it did last time.

A brief fragment of a dream surfaced in his mind as he considered the fabric-wrapped bodies lying on the cave floor. His dreams were always the sort where one cannot move or get away, and that just made it all the more worse. He could only lie helpless as skittering claws and horrible faces like he had never heard before passed before his eyes. He hated the feeling of being helpless, especially during those nightmares. And especially when the screaming began. The worst screams didn't come from the monsters in his mind, but always from the ones he cared about. Nori and Dori, of course, all the more horrible because he knew they were yelling at him to run, but of course he couldn't. Other voices too – his dear friends Fili and Kili, and Mister Baggins as well. He never dreamed of Master Dwalin crying out in pain, because that was simply too impossible for him to fathom. He hoped he never had to hear it.

None of Ori's thoughts were helping in his current situation. He knew he should go and sleep with his brothers. Of course he should, but…they had been quarreling earlier, as always happened if they were in each other's presence for longer than five minutes, it seemed. Ever since he was a wee child, Ori sought to avoid those types of situations, and putting himself in the middle of the two, even if it were just for sleep…well, more often or not he would become the focus of their bickering. Dori insisted upon him being a proper respectable dwarf. Nori constantly pushed for him to be free of Dori's fussing. Ori was only left confused.

_If only I had thought to ask if he could bring in Mister Bilbo's blanket_, he thought mournfully as he eyed Master Thorin's empty bedroll by Fili and Kili. He and the gentlehobbit were on fair terms – Ori would even go so far as to call it a friendship – and now that Master Bilbo had the King's company he wouldn't need his blanket, right? But no, he couldn't do that; that would be rude. He wouldn't dare take the King's blankets, even if he knew Master Thorin would not likely return. Fili and Kili would undoubtedly welcome him into their tangle of blanket, but he wouldn't want to disturb them. And they'd laugh at him, surely, if any nightmares came later in the night.

Perhaps…if he were to awaken Master Dwalin, and explain the situation…surely the elder dwarf would think no less of him for it. Master Dwalin would likely expect to be woken anyway, for his turn at watch, and maybe Master Thorin didn't actually intend to be outside for very long…

Ori was not very good at confrontation. He disliked bothering people, even over his own discomfort. Most of all, he did not wish to garner Master Dwalin's disproval in any way. He had returned the warrior's warhammer; though, it was more like Master Dwalin had yanked it from his hands when he landed in the pine next to him. He kept his distance, not wishing to say or do anything that would cause Master Dwalin to look down upon him. Perhaps it would be better to keep up his silent admiration, rather than risk disproval.

But, he realized as a tremendous yawn rocked him on his feet, he seemed to have no choice. He would awaken Master Dwalin, explain the situation, and hope he could then just curl up under the blanket, as he wished, and put this whole unpleasantness behind him.

Though, there was that whole issue regarding waking the older dwarf up…

After taking a minute or so to build up his courage, Ori knelt down beside Master Dwalin's blanket-covered form.

"Master Dwalin?" he whispered, reaching out a hesitant hand to rest his fingers on the markings coving Master Dwalin's arm. He ended up squeaking and falling back on his bum in an undignified manner when Master Dwalin shot up in a flash, metal-covered fist rising to strike at some imagined foe.

_He actually sleeps in those!_ Ori never had a handle at the odd thoughts about random details that were forever crossing his mind, and even with his life potentially in danger it was still in full effect. He dimly wondered why he never noticed that the warrior slept in his knuckledusters, before he realized that Master Dwalin was staring at him with a befuddled expression. Well, he didn't appear angry yet…

"What is it laddie?" Master Dwalin asked as he unclenched his fist, rubbing at his face with it. His voice sleep-roughened and deep, and oh, that didn't help the situation at all. He began to push himself up with his muscle-bound arms, and Ori couldn't help but notice how loose his shirt was around the neck, and he really should stop focusing on those details and start focusing on his words. "Yer shift over already?" Master Dwalin roughly inquired as he automatically reached for his axe.

Ori pushed himself back to his knees, where he felt at least a bit more dignified. "Master Thorin took over my shift." He whispered. Master Dwalin gave him a puzzled look, and he hurried to continue. "I wasn't sure if I should wake you or not, because if he's not out there for long, but I wasn't sure, so I just-"

"Alright, alright, I hear ya." Ori shut up quickly, fingers twisting the hem of his jumper. He knew he had a problem with rambling, and it was particularly rude of him to do when Master Dwalin had just awoken. He watched miserably as Master Dwalin slumped back onto his bedroll with a thumb and a sigh. "If his royal stick-up-his-arse wants to stay up all night, let him. I could use more sleep."

Ori mouth opened when Master Dwalin's eyes slid closed, but he didn't say anything as he appeared to fall asleep again. He still wanted to rest so very badly, but Master Dwalin appeared to have a solid claim to the blanket he desired. Biting his lip, Ori was about to come to terms with going to his brothers when Dwalin started shuffling under the blankets. Ori watched uncertainly as the older dwarf shifted onto his side facing him, and scooted over enough to leave a good section of the blankets free. His broad arm patted the exposed area, but still Ori dawdled, quite unsure about sleeping so closely to the dwarf he admired so.

Clearly sensing his reluctance, the outstretched arm lifted the blankets, an obvious invitation. "Come on lad, get yer rest."

Ori took a deep breath, slightly disbelieving that Master Dwalin was willing to allow him to share his bedroll. The elder dwarf didn't appear to be jesting, but this act of kindness was certainly too good to be true. He was still waiting though, so Ori laid his notebook aside, and began struggling out of his boots.

"Leave them on, lad!" Master Dwalin barked, and Ori jumped slightly, hands snapping away from his boots. "Now get in here. You're letting the heat out." Ori was then swift to crawl under the blankets, and after some shuffling and twisting of limbs, he wound up on his side facing Master Dwalin. The top blanket settled over his shoulders, along with a rather warm and heavy arm.

Ori had shared beds before, of course, but only with kin, his brothers and cousins. During the trip, he'd had Fili and Kili fall asleep on him a few times – and he was almost certain they did it on purpose. But _this_…this couldn't compare to any of that. Master Dwalin was large and very warm, and he'd never felt this nervous about sleeping so close to someone else before. It was mildly troubling and yet very pleasant.

Ori remained tense while he watched Master Dwalin relax. He was unused to seeing any of the warriors in any situation besides charging into battle and standing as solid as a mountain, but here was the strongest of them all, lying calm and quiet. It was beautiful and amazing, and Ori couldn't calm his mind as he imagined drawing Master Dwalin like this, or better yet, being able to see him like this every night and morning. Silly thoughts…

The hand resting on his shoulder began rubbing, back and forth, calluses scraping against fabric. "Yer not sleeping lad," Master Dwalin commented quietly. The hand slipped lower, between the shoulder blades, and Ori was pushed even closer to his chest. Even more embarrassed, he shifted as best he could as Master Dwalin's arm settled over his shoulder again. This close, he could brush the fabric of the other's shirt with his beard if he wished. It really was quite comfortable.

"Um, it's just…" Master Dwalin was very warm indeed, Ori thought distractedly as he pushed his face against the other's chest. "It's just…I've been having nightmares, and I don't wanna wake you again…" The hand resumed its rubbing, and Ori felt eyelids begin to slip dangerously low.

"Don't worry about it lad." Master Dwalin muttered against the crown of his head. "We all get nightmares sometimes."

_Well, in that case…I guess I'm all right_, Ori thought as he finally relaxed. Sooner than he would have believed it, he felt the familiar black blanket of sleep settle over him, weighing him down with Master Dwalin's arm. He would be alright on this night. Master Dwalin would protect him.

~*~ Many thanks to all my readers. Hope you enjoyed!


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